


what cuts deep

by thinkatory



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale's Flaming Sword (Good Omens), F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Rape/Non-con Elements, Requited Unrequited Love, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: War likes knifeplay and Crowley likes Aziraphale. The two don't mix.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/War (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	what cuts deep

**Author's Note:**

> Look, this is just an excuse for knifeplay with the sword and some A/C at the end because I can't help myself. Short thing, you know how it is.

All things considered, there are other concerns at hand, but it is in fact very embarrassing to be bound to a kitchen table by a Horseperson of the Apocalypse, and Aziraphale is doing his level best not to allow his pride to get in the way of getting out of this in one relative piece.

She's managed to do some sort of spell or magick that's bound him down and vaguely weakened him. He also doesn't remember how this happened, which has nettled him terribly, but she's also hovering over him with an _incredibly_ predatory look on her face, which is far more important. "I'm sure we can find an equally beneficial solution to this situation," Aziraphale suggests, hurried, as he strains to conjure (ha) the mental image of any useful pages in his books on the occult. A few things leap to mind, most of which require him to have full use of both hands and, preferably, ink and paper. He frowns. Really, occultists should have thought of this kind of thing.

"You really are a sad little thing, aren't you," War muses.

"I don't think so," Aziraphale says, a touch miffed.

"I don't know, you were easier to get than I was anticipating," she says, and moves closer to him. "Maybe your guard was down. Who were you waiting for?"

"No one," Aziraphale said instantly, protective yet.

"Yeah, sure," War says, flippant. "Anyway. You may have figured out by now that you're bait. And you'll be dying tonight once this is all done, which means I can do what I want with you while we wait." She contemplates him, though it's clear she's made up her mind to do something nefarious by that look on her face. Aziraphale knows nefarious by now. "I think it's going to be a little bit of a wait, too. What do you think?"

"I wouldn't mind a cuppa," he says mildly. "I'm afraid I'm a bit of a stickler for biscuits, though."

She rolls her eyes. "Gone native," she declares. "All right, let's get to it." Out of nowhere she draws the sword, and he stares as the flames lick down the length and shine along its surface. "I always wondered what this would do to one of your people. You or the demons. We never did get a chance to try this out properly."

"A woman of science, are you?" Aziraphale blurts out, and rather regrets it.

"You could say that." She touches the tip of the sword to the top of his shirt, and draws it down his chest to singe a straight line all the way down, to make it easier to pull open his shirt. "There," she says, sounding quite satisfied.

"You could have just opened it," he mutters.

War snorts, and casually draws infinity symbols along the skin of Aziraphale's body, such as it is, and it's cold and burns and aches all at once. He flinches at each new touch, and she laughs and laughs, and finally he retorts, "What is the point of this?"

"I'm having _fun_ ," War says blithely. "Don't you ever have fun?"

"I have fun all the time," Aziraphale says, nettled again. "I don't usually poke at people with swords to have fun. But, then, I'm not you, am I?"

"Thank goodness." War presses the blade into his chest, then, and begins to cut. It hurts, more than it should, or maybe exactly as it should, and he cringes, pressing his eyes shut. She keeps cutting into him, and he's trying to think through the tingling sensation as though the wounds still burn, that maybe this is more than just a Horseperson being some sort of deviant –

"Oh," War murmurs, and strokes a hand down his chest; something streaks across his skin with the graze of her fingertips as she does, something that makes his eyes shoot open and his gaze go down. Something horrible is happening.

"I really could kill you," she whispers, and grins.

"Not if you don't want a war," Aziraphale says, as steady as he can manage.

"You're so right!" She laughs. "You know, you're not my type. But a girl has to make do." She yanks him down a bit down the table by the hips, then pulls his trousers down.

"I, excuse me," Aziraphale says, utterly flustered, "this is – absolutely _not_ in any terms of engagement I understand – "

"Terms of engagement are for humans," War whispers, satisfied, and grazes her mouth down Aziraphale's chest to taste the angelic life-force escaping his wounds at a thankfully slow pace. Then her hand slips into his pants, and he sets his jaw, intent to stay stoic until rescue comes.

The sensations that come over him are all very, very uncomfortable in a way he _very_ much does not like, so he manages to mute them somewhat, but they're still there, under the surface like music he can hear from a loud hooligan party across the street. It's also hard to ignore the way she's half-laughing as she _moves her hand_ , and he manages to catch his breath long enough to be indignant. "I can't imagine what could possibly be so funny," he gets out.

"Angels," War declares, rolling her eyes with a smile oozing with satisfaction. "That's what."

"I want you to know that I will get that sword back from you," Aziraphale starts, but a horrible jolt goes through him and he flinches against the magical restraint.

"No you won't," she says, almost pitying. "Are you going to come or not?"

"No," he decides, as this is an obvious line to draw in the sand.

"This is why I never fuck Brits," War exclaims. "You weren't even _born_ here and you're sitting here as though I'm, I'm churning butter instead of jerking you off."

"If you thought I was interested in anything sexual involving you, you might not have bound me to a table and cut me up with an ethereal weapon," Aziraphale suggests.

War's mouth twists into an unhappy half-pout and she swiftly yanks down her own trousers, kicking her shoes off in order to get them off. Aziraphale had not anticipated this, and his breath catches. "Ah," he says. "I thought I made myself clear – "

"I want to get _something_ out of this," War says, and climbs on top of the table, straddling him. She's grazing her, her _area_ over the one he's been equipped with, and he stammers out some nonsense as she laughs and laughs.

Aziraphale has decided to recite passages of his favorite books from memory in his head to distract himself from the inevitable right when the door opens. It doesn't smash open under astounding force like one might expect from a rescue; instead, there's just the creak of the inner door, and War's head immediately twists in the direction of the sound. She takes up the sword and lifts it to obviously ram it through Aziraphale's throat, and no amount of memorized book pages are going to distract him from that, so he rams his eyes shut, but there's a horrible grinding sound and a muffled scream and her weight is gone from on top of him.

His breath escapes his throat, and he dares to open his eyes. Unsurprisingly, Crowley is there, loitering even in the face of a rescue.

"Nasty piece of work, isn't she," Crowley notes.

"Terrible," Aziraphale says, now dizzy from embarrassment. "A bit of help?"

Crowley inclines his head. "You should be able to get up now."

Aziraphale aches all over, so he hadn't noticed, but it's true that he can move now. He hurries off of the table and yanks on his trousers. Crowley seems to be waiting for the right time to bring up the obvious, which definitely isn't now, and Aziraphale doesn't even care that gratitude is radiating off of him. He follows Crowley briskly out of the house.

"What did you do?" Aziraphale whispers as they get into the Bentley. "How did you – "

"It's complicated," Crowley says, waving it off, and starts the car.

"I like complicated," Aziraphale points out.

"You do," Crowley has to admit.

"So?"

"A brief Hellish dissipation spell," Crowley decides upon. "It scattered the molecules of her physical being. She's still around. That's why we're going." He skids the Bentley out of the neighborhood at a demonic pace. "That's why we're going _very fast_."

"What's going on?" Aziraphale demands now, impending doom starting to win out over the horrible feeling looming in his chest. "Why was she trying to bait you?"

Crowley grimaces and goes on. "Because they want us in one place."

"Oh, don't tell me we're playing right into their hands, Crowley – "

"We're playing right into their hands," Crowley confirms.

" _Crowley_."

Crowley's got that faint smile of his on. "Anyway. My plan needs their plan, so it's not as bad as it sounds."

"I suppose," Aziraphale says, backing down from his ruffled state, then falls a bit quiet. "Crowley," he starts again.

"If you want," Crowley cuts in; his tone is that confusing mix of dangerous and warm and velvety that it gets sometimes, when the two of them are alone, when Aziraphale knows he means every word he says. "If you want, I'll kill her myself."

"You can't," Aziraphale says, and his throat stops before he goes on. "And I wouldn't ask you to risk yourself just because – "

"No." Crowley is staring ahead at the road, moving quickly through what little traffic there is in the region. "If you want the bitch dead, say the word."

Aziraphale feels warm, concerned, overwhelmed, too sentimental and frightened. "I don't want you to get hurt," he concludes, haltingly.

"She hurt you." Crowley's mouth is set in an unpleasant half-smile. "We have to get you healed up."

"That would be nice," Aziraphale murmurs, unable to look at Crowley. Aziraphale has a fine opinion of himself, he knows that, but he will never understand why Crowley cares enough to take risk after risk for a simple angel like him.

It's a natural wonder.

* * *

Crowley's flat is Crowley's flat and there's really not much else to say but that, is there?

Besides, Aziraphale is a bit distracted by the horrific pain. There's ethereal wisps escaping his wounds and it _hurts_ and it's only made worse every time Crowley tries to heal them. "Sit still," Crowley hisses.

"I'm sorry, I'm really trying," Aziraphale protests.

Crowley is obviously frustrated, but there's little Aziraphale can do that he hasn't already done. All the occult things he can remember haven't worked, and neither angelic or demonic healing is working in this situation. Eventually they just bind him up with gauze and tape ("...don't ask why I have this," Crowley suggests, and Aziraphale doesn't) and Aziraphale just stands there, shirtless, awkward, and half-grimacing in pain.

"Blessed hell," Crowley says, not looking away in the least, "you are a mess."

"Really," Aziraphale says, sighing.

"Really." Crowley barely misses a beat. "Sorry. Well, not sorry, but, you know."

Aziraphale realizes he's trying to distract from the situation, and the banter is helping a bit, but he just wants _a break_. "A cuppa?" he requests, cautious.

Crowley watches him, then draws the sunglasses from his face and swipes a hand over his eyes. "You've never used that thing, have you," he says.

Aziraphale is admittedly confused. "What, a cuppa?"

"No," Crowley says, a little despairingly. "The equipment you came with."

Aziraphale is instantly horrified. " _Crowley_!"

"So that's a no," Crowley says briskly.

"It's, it," Aziraphale fumbles, "it's hardly relevant."

"Angel." Crowley's tone goes serious. Aziraphale straightens. "I'm not trying to embarrass you," he says patiently.

"This is hardly the time for talk of – of – _equipment_ ," Aziraphale says, a little stiff.

"That woman," Crowley says, tone cool and smooth and unnerving, "that _thing_ doesn't get to decide how you feel about the whole thing. Do you understand that?"

"What are you saying," Aziraphale says steadily.

Crowley drops his head back as though this is the most agonizing conversation he's had in thousands of years. "I'm saying that you shouldn't give up on sex in a humanesque body, angel."

Aziraphale doesn't have much of an opportunity to stop himself from stammering out, "I, I, well, I wasn't thinking about – frankly I wasn't thinking about it at all – I was sort of just trying to – "

"Would you do it," Crowley cuts him off with.

A silence stretches between them, then Aziraphale says carefully, "Would I what?"

Crowley exhales wearily, then says, "Would you have sex?"

Aziraphale's breath catches horribly, he clears his throat, and he gets out, "I hadn't really thought about it."

"Think about it," Crowley suggests, dismissive and pointed all at once, and his eyes meet Aziraphale's; something in his expression crashes Aziraphale's breath and heart and he can't contain himself – but then the sunglasses go back on.

No. Aziraphale can't go back. "Crowley?" he starts again, far different this time.

"Yes, angel." Crowley's voice is softer now, with barred back affection.

"In good time," Aziraphale decides upon after the briefest pause. "I'll... I'm listening."

Crowley's eyebrows flick up over the sunglasses. "Good," he says. "Back to work?"

"I, I suppose so," Aziraphale says, admittedly a bit flustered yet, but happy to ignore it in favor of research. "The shop?"

"Where else," Crowley says dryly, tosses a shirt to Aziraphale, who hurriedly pulls it on and buttons it up, and strides off to lead the way out to the Bentley.


End file.
